


Fretted with Golden Fire

by shakespearespaz



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:13:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespearespaz/pseuds/shakespearespaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rachel goes to Atlanta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fretted with Golden Fire

The Tower was a ruse.

Aaron never saw the blow coming. Rachel sent a mental apology his way as she left him in the care of an old couple outside of Columbus, her excuse that she’d found him unconscious on the road. She needed to travel South and quickly and Aaron was a lovable burden, but an inquisitive and troublesome one.

What she’d say when she got there she had not planned, but her motives were as true as they could be in her fractured heart.

President Foster wouldn’t know her face, but the name Rachel Matheson had once got around in the higher echelons of power. That was when she was nothing more than a plaything for Miles, and their voices whispered her situation sympathetically.

She had no use for their sympathy now.

After she crossed the borders of the Federation, Rachel hitched a ride in the back of truck returning to the city, enjoying the long forgotten comfort of the rapid motion. The wind was welcome in the stagnant heat.

She made sure the two young men driving had seen her place her knife into her boot before joining them.

At the heavy metal gates of Atlanta, Rachel surrendered herself, if she could call it that. The captain at the station took her into custody, but dismissed her as a mild nuisance at first. When she lifted the hem of her red shirt to share the angry scar tissue in the shape of an encircled M, he finally took interest and, she could only assume, reported her presence up the chain of command.

The President was efficient and before long Rachel was standing wearily in her office.

The neat décor and rich colors would not have been enough to convince Rachel of the competency of her rule—Monroe had had a taste for finer things too. What she’d seen of the Georgia Federation so far, however, told her that Kelly Foster ran a tight ship

“So, you’re Rachel Matheson?” she mused, surveying the figure in front of her, “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a genius.”

“With all due respect, you’re not what I would expect for a successful president either.”

Foster smirked.

“The general assumption these days is that you’re dead, Mrs. Matheson. How is it you’re not and why are you standing in my office flaunting the fact?”

“General Monroe had me. For four years. He was questioning me about—well, that’s why I’m here.”

“Do continue.”

“I can bring the power back.”

Rachel let the words hang in the damp air, hoping that the sudden reveal might give her an advantage.

“Really?” The President was more skeptical than impressed. “Do you know how many pseudo-scientists I’ve had waltz into here and try to convince me that they could too? Why are you so—”

“I can bring it back because I turned it off. Along with my husband and a think tank of other scientists. It was a project for the Department of Defense.”

She reached around her neck and unlatched the piece of jewelry the soldiers who had searched her hadn’t looked twice at.

The pendant dangled from her fingers.

“I can start helping right away with this.”

No one interrupted the President, but Kelly Foster was intrigued. She stood for a moment in silence.

“Even if I believe you,” she began, her speech slowing as the wheels turned, “I can only assume you have terms?”

“First,” Rachel responded steadily, withdrawing the pendant back into her tight grip, “I want Monroe and his senior officers. They will be tried in your courts and punished for their crimes.”

“That’s—that’s reasonable.” Foster was surprised. “I figured he’d really done a number on you. Don’t you want revenge?”

“What he did to me is my business,” she said with an uncomfortable waver, “It’s worth more to me if his downfall is a spectacle, if everything he ever built is destroyed.”

President Foster pressed no more.

“Second, I want you to bring about order when the power comes back. The rebels are a mess. Your society is fair and advanced.” Rachel inhaled deeply. “And I want to trust you.”

“And third?”

“Excuse me?”

“I assume you have a third term.”

“No.” Rachel ended awkwardly. She knew how to talk, but when it came down to it, Rachel was no politician. “Nothing except freedom to come and go. And the resources I’ll need to turn it back on.”

“And Miles?”

“What about him?”

“You’ve been in contact with him, I presume. Where does he fall in all this?”

“Where ever he falls, I guess.”

“Meaning?”

“If he wants to die a pointless death with the rebels, let him.”

Rachel tried to state her conclusion cold and emotionless, but Foster could plainly see the struggle written across her face.

She still cared for him, and that probably meant he did her. The President of the Georgia Federation neatly stored away such information for a rainy day.

“I don’t like it,” Foster’s advisor told her later, “She’s selling her brain—herself—to the highest bidder. That’s us now, but what happens when Texas offers her a better deal?”

“Will it matter who helps her get it on? Once it’s on; it’s on. And, respectfully, I don’t think she is.”

“What do you mean, ma’am?”

“She isn’t selling herself. She chose us. She chose me. I think she said it: she trusts me to give her want she wants. She doesn’t trust Texas.”

“So does that mean we deliver? She could have ulterior motives. We need to stop and ask the details of how she got here.”

“How do you figure?”

“We know she left her family once. If she abandoned them again to offer you this, who knows how trustworthy she is? We don’t know what she really cares about.”

“I don’t see how the matters, sir,” came her curt reply, “If I may remind you, she isn’t the only person to have given up something she cares about for the greater good.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We’ll keep an eye on her and be wary. Do what she wants but keep her nearby. But please, make sure everyone treats her carefully. Lord only knows what that woman’s been through.”

“It can’t be worse than what you’ve been through.”

Foster swallowed.

“Of course not. But I’ve obviously handled it better,” she snapped.

She took in a deep breath of heavy air and dismissed the questioning faces. She spent that afternoon mapping the worn lines in her desk with cautious fingertips, pondering which game the Matheson matriarch was playing. With so much of her hand already bared to them, it struck Foster that maybe she wasn’t playing one at all.

Out of curiosity she took it upon herself to personally check in on Rachel’s work.

She wasn’t menacing, like Monroe had been, with dark threats whispered too close to a clenched jaw and nervous lips and barely a glance at the actual project.

Kelly Foster kept her distance.

She lingered back from the busy scientist, perhaps due to the rumors of Rachel’s proclivity for taking people down with everyday tools. Still, Foster was quiet and observant, expressing genuine interest in what Rachel’s fast hands sketched and calculated and screwed and built. Even as a guest, the woman took clear pride when she understood on even a basic level the complicated diagrams and machinery.

Rachel was annoyed at first.

She painted her companion as a snake in the shadows. Narrow eyes catalogued every step, poking and prodding until something tore and the secrets fell at her feet. Rachel waited for the day the enquiring smile would vanish and the slow drawl would revoke its promises and order the man in green at the door to gift her with bloody bruises until she worked faster.

It confused her when the day never came.

Instead, she found herself dreading the day she would have to reveal that the secret to all the power lay elsewhere, and she would have to leave Georgia’s reach and the simplicity of building another amplifier.

She would hardly say that Foster’s presence was comforting. Once Rachel let her guard down, however, she startled herself with her patience to help Foster understand.

Every visit from the President became the truest connection she had made in a long time.

Rachel was thinking about bed when Foster came to her small quarters, the city on the verge of another warm evening.

“I don’t know what Monroe’s been having you drink, but our trade routes ensure we only have the best here.”

She held up a wine bottle and two glasses.

“I haven’t done anything to deserve that, but thank you.” Rachel invited her into the cramped space. “Pardon the mess.”

Kelly Foster may have been able to delineate clearly between work and play, but Rachel had no such boundaries. Her active brain spilled into her living space and books and papers had already settled on any and all flat surfaces.

“You really throw yourself in, don’t you?” Foster remarked, amused by the chaos.

“I guess it’s easier than dealing with reality.”

“How are you?”

“I’m getting more things figured out each day, but the ability to bring the power back is still a long way off. I’ll need to get in touch with my colleagues for—”

“No. Not your work. You. How are you settling in?”

“Why?” Rachel asked, not hostile but alarmed. No one cared about her; she’d already adapted to that fact. They only cared about what she could do for them.

“I guess…you intrigue me. I still want to know why you’re here of all places.”

Rachel wasn’t sure how to respond. She shrugged and in silence they found seats on the couch and chairs across from each other.

“The truth?” Rachel asked after a moment, taking the offered the glass from Foster and playing with the stem between her fingers.

Foster nodded.

“The truth is I’m not settling in well at all. I miss my children—my child.”

The correction was quick and subtle but Foster could see that it hurt.

“And to be fair it feels a lot like being back with Monroe,” she continued, “Except for you. You’re much more stable. And kinder.”

The last part was unnecessary, she knew, but confirming it between them felt like a safety net.

“You’re little use to me in a desperate state,” Foster said.

Rachel grimaced and took a deep drink.

“I’m little use,” she repeated quietly, “You know what I find pathetic?”

The bitterness crept into her voice.

“What?”

“It’s never going to be enough. I can let myself be used. I can keep my mouth shut through the torture. I can force myself away from the people I love. I can do it all without thinking twice, assured by the constant voice in my head saying ‘This is it. This is the pain and heartache and impossible choice that will be enough. This will make up for it.’”

She took another shaky swallow and shook her head.

“I should’ve learned by now. Nothing will make up for it,” she finished.

There was no sobbing, no self-pity, only Rachel blinking away the water attempting to pool in her eyes. Kelly Foster watched her carefully.

The woman curled on the faded couch had laid her inner workings bare, but Foster couldn’t separate herself from the moment. It wasn’t a confession for her to weaponize for her own devices later. It was only her and Rachel Matheson and one of them was falling apart like fragile old lace between rude fingers.

Rachel took a long swig. Foster laid her glass down on the table between them and leaned forward.

“Can I tell you something I’ve observed?”

“I won’t stop you.”

“I shouldn’t like you, Mrs. Matheson. You’re emotional, unpredictable—broken and messy. The funny part is, I also think that makes you one of the most honest people I’ve met.”

Rachel laughed rudely, her cheeks beginning to flush.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been called honest.”

“You’re more honest than I am.”

“I doubt that.”

“I—”

Kelly Foster stopped.

She’d almost told her; the brief moment of her relief was soon overshadowed by the desire to continue. It would weigh heavy on her every waking moment if she let it and in this odd confessional they’d set up, she knew it made logical sense to free herself from that burden.

Besides, if she managed to consume enough wine it would all seem logical.

“I have secrets too. You’ve trusted me; can I trust you?”

“If you get me drunk first.”

Foster allowed herself a brief grin.

“This government,” she began, “This government is my child. It’s what I can give back to people and it’s what they need.”

“You’ve done well.”

The compliment actually felt like it meant something, stirring a place deep in her. Since when did she respect Rachel Matheson?

“You know how the Georgia Federation came to be?”

Rachel shook her head.

“Matheson and Monroe weren’t the only ones who saw the carnage and wanted to do something. I can’t speak for their experiences, but mine were more—more personal.”

Steady blue eyes watched her through their haze.

“I travelled to my parents as quickly as possible after the Blackout, only to watch them murdered for fresh water. When I headed south with my husband, we were set upon by wandering hooligans. Outnumbered, we couldn’t fight back. They took what they wanted from me and killed him for fun. I reached Atlanta desperate for a new start, to sort through the cesspit of humanity and bring back some civility to the masses running wild and desperate through the streets. That’s my story.”

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

Where Rachel managed to conjure up so much sympathy confounded her.

It was Kelly’s turn to drink.

“Except it is a story. None of it’s true. Really cliché actually—but the generality of it hit home. I was an economics major and spent most of my adult life twiddling my thumbs away at a desk job before. When the Blackout happened I found myself surrounded by capable friends who took care of me. I liked to draw up theoretical situations in the slow evenings, for fun really, something to take advantage of everything this part of the country had to offer. Some jerk told me I couldn’t make any of it happen. I guess that was the boost I needed, because really I did it just to show him. Now these people are what I live for.”

“The sob story was a nice touch.”

“I’m no idiot. People respond better to emotional speeches than pages of economic plans.”

Rachel tried to smirk; she could identify.

“I thought you’d be—I don’t know, angrier,” Foster said.

“Why?”

“I faked what so many—including you—have been through.”

Rachel shrugged.

“I’m saving my anger.”

Maybe Foster had been wrong.

Rachel Matheson had survived where others hadn’t by forcing herself neatly into the roles people expected her to, biting her tongue and saving her pain. The Rachel before her could easily be only a dangerous collection of those facades.

But then there was the focused woman she had seen in the lab, the one whose eyes didn’t glaze over unexpectedly and who would sit in silence with a knot in her brow for hours, completely invested in a separate world.

Foster wanted to believe that the core of Rachel Matheson, whoever she had been, was still in there somewhere.

Maybe because it meant that the real Kelly Foster was still buried beneath the false tears.

They finished the bottle easily. To be fair, they could both hold their liquor well, but Foster ventured out to find another. She returned to join Rachel on the couch, shedding her jacket.

Rachel had always been a serious drunk, but Foster was giggly.

“—so I left him there. Pants around his knees, handcuffed to the front seat and shouting like a lunatic that he loved me.”

“No…” Rachel’s hand didn’t quite find her mouth.

“I think I told him next time he should save himself for a real man or something like that—”

“What?”

“I don’t remember either.” The laughter spilled from her red lips easily.

“Was—was he alright?” Rachel’s wide eyes looked concerned.

“Who cares at this point…”

Foster trailed off as she watched Rachel. Blue outlined orbs of dilated black, cheeks flushed pink and curls danced golden in the candlelight.

Her slender hands fumbled forward towards the hair. She placed a messy, inebriated kiss on Rachel’s mouth.

The woman was startled, but she pushed back after a moment, a thank you for the wine and comfort.

Neither wanted to break the kiss.

Rachel’s arm found its way around Foster’s shoulder and Foster’s around her waist. They fell back together, Rachel on the bottom but sweaty clothes bunching up as they pressed close.

When Foster finally separated their lips, heavy breaths stopped both from speaking.

“I—uh…”

“I told you my husband was a lie.” Foster smiled at Rachel’s flustered face.

“I’m just…”

Foster planted a gentled kiss on her neck. She felt Rachel’s fine fingers in her hair, gently removing pins and letting the light auburn mass tumble down.

“You have pretty hair.” Rachel was deathly serious.

Then she laughed.

“God, we’re both so drunk.”

Rachel brushed her hand down Foster’s thin arm.

“I—I need to use the bathroom,” she confessed.

The woman on top of her broke into another fit of giggles.

“Too much damn wine,” Rachel muttered as they peeled their limbs from each other.

She had to try a few times to stand up without collapsing back onto the couch and the snickering woman.

When she returned, the President had started nodding off. Rachel did her best to situate her on the couch before passing out on her own bed.

Neither slept well.

Foster decided it was time for a sick day as the sleepy sun rose the next morning. Rachel kept to her quarters and did little but pace, her headache halting her work for the day.

President Foster finally managed the courage to visit Mrs. Matheson in the late afternoon.

She lingered in the doorway at first.

“Do you want to go on a walk?”

A reserved nod was the only response and they made their way down the flights of stairs in silence.

The two women both took long strides and the Presidential Compound disappeared from sight as quickly as they wanted it to. Their accompanying security held back far enough and, as they hit a residential street that was just a bit greener than the others, they slowed.

“Are you alright?” Foster asked.

“Slightly dehydrated, but I’m fine.”

“It was entirely improper—”

“I said I’m fine.” Rachel cut her off.

“No—” Foster caught her arm and lowered them to the stoop of a house.

In an attempt to make up for the silence, the words came unplanned and all at once.

“You were emotionally compromised and I took advantage of that. I came to your room hoping that I could—I don’t know—figure you out—once inside I—I compromised you further—but what I said about you I think I meant—”

Rachel’s hand shot forward to rest calmly on Foster’s knee. She quieted.

“President Foster—”

“Kelly—between us. Please.”

“ _I_ can’t figure me out,” she assured, “It was the best evening I’ve had in a long time. And trust me—you were just as compromised as I was.”

Foster studied the woman.

“You’re not mad?”

Rachel shook her head and a smile tugged at her lips.

“And if you meant it and I enjoyed it,” she reprimanded the President, “why are we sitting here talking?”

She arched an eyebrow and her companion’s stern features softened. Foster found the small of Rachel’s back and Rachel hers and they both lifted each other back to their feet.

“That’s an excellent question.”

It hardly took an hour for Foster’s silk top to mingle with Rachel’s worn pants on the thick red carpet of the presidential suite.

Foster led and Rachel followed, until Rachel led and Foster followed.

In the humidity, Foster’s hands were cool comforts, but her warm breath was tantalizingly invisible as it tickled in exploration down Rachel’s stomach and legs.

The souvenir from Monroe staining her torso was not forgotten, but the brow of the woman above her wrinkled at its sight. Rachel collected curls into her loose fist and encouraged the concerned head eagerly towards her mouth.

She barely gave Foster a taste before venturing down to the woman’s collarbone.

Rachel only had a distant memory of one college encounter with a woman, but she knew how to find her own pleasure with ease. The light gasps as she studied her partner with teeth and tongue told Rachel it couldn’t be much different.

Besides, Foster was willing to experiment.

When the cold fingers finally pressed into the wetness that throbbed between her legs, Rachel was unable to tell her own sticky skin from the sweaty air. Nothing might matter except the watery but lustful blue eyes that watched their work, watched Rachel smile and gasp and squirm into the tight skin that held her close, close to satisfaction.

As she came with difficult breaths drifting into Foster’s neck, the woman captured her lips again.

Rachel pressed her back onto the bed, long limbs stretching out next to long limbs. They threaded their fingers together and Rachel led their hands together across Foster’s breasts and down to trace swirling patterns along her stomach.

A guttural sound escaped from Kelly Foster’s composed body as the hands dipped lower.

Rachel rested her forehead against the freckled shoulder rising up and down and Foster clutched at the question between strokes, the question of how Rachel Matheson oscillated so smoothly between innocent victim and skilled player, adept hands finding the weak spot of those that writhed under her.

Within moments, the blurry question was banished.

Exhaustion found them together in a lazy sprawl across the bed. Hair tangled wantonly as both heads turned to face the other, a tapestry of gold and red weaving itself above them.

“You. Me. We could give Miles and Monroe a run for their money.”

The thoughts escaped Rachel effortlessly.

Foster stayed quiet, but circled the offensive scar on her lover’s stomach. The core of her clenched, burning perversely different than any moment before.

She sat up straight.

“Give me and only me the power and we’ll murder them where they stand.”

Rachel’s face went blank.

“You know Monroe and I know how to get what I want,” the President reasoned; an irrational hatred had buried its roots deep within her.

Rachel opened her mouth slightly, flushed lips unsure or agreeing or apathetic.

“He _will_ suffer for every hand he’s laid on you and your family. You can do what he did to you a hundred times over,” Foster hissed, “and then do it to everyone he’s ever loved.”

Rachel’s eyes searched upward, questioning.

“You take your child back and I’ll be with you every agonizing, satisfying step of the way.”

Foster meant it.

It was a moment before the answer graced the silence between them. The word was both so empty and so full.

“ _Yes._ ”

Their lips met, as did the promise of brains with brains matching brawn with brawn in battle. Two men might bestride the narrow world, but from ashes and despair flames of gold had risen.

They would scorch the ground they walked.

**Author's Note:**

> Ship Rachel with all the people! (And by all the people I mean for me someone other than Miles or Bass). I might not be characterizing the Georgia Federation quite right, but it’s more interesting for me if it’s less like the Militia. Also Foster was difficult because we've seen so little of her, but I'm crossing my fingers for more complexity from her in the show. Also, someone other than Bass and Miles deserved to get drunk. And golden fire was meant to be a reference to their hair, because I delude myself into thinking I'm deep like that.


End file.
